In Too Deep
by Moons
Summary: Okay, so I don't really know where I'm going with this, so bear with me. Had a sudden inspiration to write this, and ... yeah. If you have any ideas or summat, just message me or something :]


Okay, so I wrote this yesterday, because I had this sudden inspiration for a very weird story. It's sort of depressing, and I don't know if it makes sense at all, but yeah ... I don't think I need a disclaimer yet. One name is mentioned. Riley. He's my creation. Hehe. But yeah. I dunno, just tell me what you think. I'm not sure where I'm going with this story yet. I have tons of rough ideas in my mind, but yeah. If you have ideas, or if you have a suggestion for a character or something, just say so. I'm open for ideas. Anyway, as I said. It's a bit of a drabble. -shrug-. I 'unno.

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A Christmas tree. He remembered a Christmas tree. It was nice. His father had succeeded in finding one of the big ones, one of the very few big ones that had plenty of green both at the top _and_ at the bottom. These were rare. Everyone knew that. Those perfect trees … they were rare. The atmosphere in the room was calm. Pleasant. The clinking of cutlery could be heard. His mother was readying the table. Christmas dinner was always a special occasion. The fancy dishes and bowls and cups would appear from out of the confines of the storage box, the box that was usually stood at the attic. The dishes were usually hidden. They were too pretty. They gave people the wrong impression. Anyone that used that kind of dishes regularly had a perfect family. This family wasn't perfect. Far from it. The dishes had to be kept at the attic. They were too valuable. They couldn't be broken. If they kept them downstairs, they might be broken. And they couldn't be broken. 

The light danced on the shiny surface of the Christmas balls; dangling from the green twigs of the Christmas tree. There were actual presents underneath the tree. Was this year going to be different? Would his father and mother finally understand the _real_ Christmas thought? He tried to be positive. Really; he did. But no. They would not understand. They would never understand. It was all a fake. It wasn't real. Any moment now; this perfect world would be shattered. It would start of with something small. Something seemingly insignificant. It would escalate. His mother would be hurting, and he would try to help her, heal her, protect her. But it wouldn't work. He would be the one ending up hurting the most. The rage, the fury; would turn against him, would leave his mother alone and go for him, he, the younger one, the weaker one, the easier target.

He would wake up again in his familiar surroundings. White. White walls, white sheets, white shirts, white coats. Blue. Bruises on his arms, his chest, his legs, his face. Bruises everywhere. Purple, from where the bruises were starting to fade. Yellow. Fade even more. Red. Red stains on his shirt; the shirt he'd been wearing the night before. What night? He wouldn't be able to remember. He wouldn't know that they ate turkey, fried turkey, delicious fried turkey, with potatoes, mashed potatoes, his mum's speciality. He wouldn't remember how he'd complimented his mother on the food, how she had smiled wryly at him, giving him a small nod, thanking him silently for the compliment. He wouldn't remember she silence; but he would know. He would know, because it had been a repeat of last year. Last year had been no different. They had eaten turkey then too. And mashed potatoes.

Everything had been happy. Until that one small thing. Insignificant. That one small thing that would escalate into so much more. Someone dropping one of the Christmas balls. The cutlery making a loud noise on the dish when he wasn't paying attention. A soft squeak of metal on metal. Someone saying the wrong thing, accidental or not. Something small. Something small, something insignificant that would tick father of. He would look up, that dangerous, oh so familiar look in his eyes. The vein, the throbbing vein at the side of his head, near his sleep; it would start appearing, pulsating, throbbing, standing out. He would slowly bring his hands down, place the cutlery on both sides of the dish, wipe his mouth with a napkin. Then he would get up. Mother would be trembling, waiting, anticipating what was to come. She knew what was to come. She had been through it so many times. So many times, so much experience, but not wanting to have experience. It was bad. Bad.

She would be pulled up, gently at first, but she wouldn't budge; he would pull her up by her hair. She would resist the urge to shriek, to swat at his hands, to defend herself. She knew what was to come. She accepted what was to come. But it wasn't normal. It was bad. Bad. Not normal. _Not normal_. Why wasn't it normal? He wasn't used to anything else. He knew this was how it was supposed to go. He thought it was normal. He didn't know any better. He was used to it. _He_ knew what was going to come as well. He, the boy, would know that _he_ was the one that would end up hurt. He knew it. He wasn't stupid. He kept telling his parents. He wasn't stupid. ''I may be young, but I'm not stupid!'' he would say. He was right. He wasn't stupid. He just couldn't know. Couldn't know that this wasn't normal. He grew up like this. He was used to it.

His mother would start crying silently; but only after the eight hit. The eight slap, hit, hard across the face. Always the eighth. Then she would break down. Then he, the boy, would feel his heart wrench, would feel her pain, his heart would ache. He would not resist the urge to run up to her, would _not_ resist the urge to comfort her, hold her close, only to be pulled away by harsh, brutal, strong hands. His father's hands. His father's hands, that soon connected with his, the boy's, face. A slap, hit, hard across the face. He wouldn't make a sound. Only when it got worse. On the floor. The cold floor. Kicking, hard boots against his chest, gasping for air. He hadn't done anything wrong. He _hadn't_. But he knew he deserved it. Daddy said he deserved it. Daddy said he was a worthless piece of shit. Daddy said … He shouldn't listen to what daddy said. But he didn't understand. Why shouldn't he listen to what daddy said? It was daddy …

''No. Daddy doesn't know everything. Daddy's done bad things. Don't listen to him.'' New people. Other people. New faces. Other faces. A new surrounding. White. Everything's white … No wait! Orange. The walls are orange. His favourite color. Orange. A smile appeared. His face lit up, eyes twinkled. He loved the color orange. These people had to be nice. ''But why?'' He was curious. Only nine years old, but curious. The curiosity of a kid, a young boy. Which he was. ''Riley, listen to me. Daddy did bad things. He hurt you didn't he?'' Fiddling with shirts. Hands clasp and unclasp, a sniff is heard and a curly-topped head nods. Yes. Daddy had hurt him. ''But why?'' He didn't understand. ''Daddy says I've been bad'' he said, whispered, muttered, barely audible. He answered his own question. Scribbling on paper. Analyzing. Someone's analyzing it and somehow, in a way that no one really understands, the boy knows this. He knows he's being watched, analyzed, observed.

And he doesn't like it …


End file.
